


Small Things

by Tavam (nekonexus)



Category: Arslan Senki | Heroic Legend of Arslan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-01-27
Updated: 2004-01-27
Packaged: 2017-10-19 12:03:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/200658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nekonexus/pseuds/Tavam
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was funny how such small things could change the course of history.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Small Things

It was funny how such small things could change the course of history. The proverbial horseshoe-nail, a misplaced word in the intricate dance of politics. An inaccurate flip of the wrist when wielding a whip. These are the small things that can damn a man, or his country. Small things, like stones in a pond, create ripples, and ripples, given enough time, will reach the shores.

~*~*~*~

A flip of the wrist had landed Lord Narsus in Hermes's grasp, a situation which had startled both of them. But Hermes had been the faster, and the stronger, though Narsus was not so poor an opponent as one might expect an artist to be. And now Narsus brooded in Hermes's dungeon, while Hermes himself paced the floor, pondering this change of fortune.

At last he turned to face Narsus, bracing himself to greet the implacable and restless mind of Arislan's Court Adviser. "You had to know your attempt at rescue was equally likely to end this way."

Narsus's dark eyes revealed nothing. He replied simply, "Yes."

"Then why?" Hermes asked. "The girl was of no importance to you."

Straightening his back, Narsus pushed his hair over his shoulder. Chains rattled around his wrists, but he paid them no heed and moved as if he didn't feel them. "What would you have done, were our places reversed?"

This gave Hermes pause. Of all the questions or explanations that might have come, this was one for which he was unprepared. It was terribly shallow of him to want to respond "such a thing would never happen!" but such were the words that sprung to his lips. He disliked the idea of himself as shallow, especially in the presence of this man, this wit, this genius. For surely Narsus was architect of Arislan's victories, as surely as he had been a voice of dissent in Andragoras's court.

"Come, Silvermask, have you no answer for me?" Narsus's voice was light, almost teasing, and completely inappropriate for a man in chains.

Yet Hermes felt compelled to answer, to show himself not the soulless villain so many thought him. "In your place... Were I _You_ , yes, I would have done the same."

"And if you were in my place and were not me? What then, Silvermask?"

Hermes shook his head, glad beyond words that his mask hid the emotions that might show on even such a face as his. "Were I not you, I would not have been in such a place, at such a time. I have not your..."

Narsus's eyes locked onto his, and he faltered, suddenly afraid that his eyes -- damnable doors to the soul -- were revealing far too much.

"You were once more like me," Narsus said, very softly, almost gently. "And you were once a boy to whom great wrong was done. Is it not so?"

With a disgusted growl, he turned away, hid his traitorous eyes from Narsus's prying view. "And what if I was? A man may follow many paths to his destiny, but in the end, he comes to it nonetheless."

"Destiny," Narsus murmured. "May not a man's destiny change? As surely as the Gods grant favour, so may they take it away. What once was a birthright...."

Snarling, Hermes spun to face the artist again. "Is always a birthright! I will have what is mine!"

"And will you kill everything and everyone in your path to have it?"

The easy answer was "If I must!" but it died on his tongue. Revenge, he'd learned, did not fill one's belly when there was no truth behind it. What he wanted more than revenge was truth, to step free of this tangled web of lies that ensnared his country. His! By the Gods, it was his to have. By sword or --

"Or what?" Narsus prodded.

Had he spoken the words aloud? Damn his idiot mouth. Damn this slippery man and his twisting words! "What would you have me say?" he growled, advancing on Narsus. "Do you dare to tell me there is another way? That by yielding my claim I might receive it?" He laughed harshly, but Narsus's expression remained serene and distant.

Grabbing the chains where they hung between Narsus and a ring set in the wall, he yanked them hard enough to force the artist to his feet. "Damn you and your slippery words, _Adviser_ to the usurper king! I will not listen."

"Then kill me," Narsus replied, no more off-balance than if he had chosen to stand. "For I will do nothing but speak words you do not wish to hear."

Drawing back one metal-gloved hand, Hermes considered exactly how it would feel to smash the teeth against the lips of that beautiful, damnable mouth. How it would feel to see blood, and broken skin... pain perhaps might stop the traitorous tongue.

"There is another way," Narsus said calmly. His eyes never wavered from the silver mask that hid Hermes's face. "You know it."

 _Brutish violence is the mark of an unworthy man, an unrighteous king. A bully uses his fists where diplomacy and skill would make a safer path._

These words and more echoed in Hermes's head, forgotten words from a lifetime ago. Words his father had spoken. Words of a teacher to two pupils, both eager to learn the ways of court.

With a disgusted grunt, Hermes dropped his hands and Narsus's chains. "Speak," he growled, imperious. "But when I tire of your words..."

Narsus nodded. "It is my death." Taking a deep breath, he flicked back his hair and began to speak of kings and thrones, of lineage and birthright, of the many roads to war and ruin.

And Hermes listened.

~*~*~*~

Small things. The words of a man, the flash of a sword, the spark of a match in the dark. By such small things history may be changed, the course of days rewritten. Words of naked truth in a dark dungeon might hold as much power as a bared blade on a sun-drenched battlefield. For while the sword creates death and stillness, words create life and stir change. Ripples in the pond.


End file.
